Out
by Ares Is Awesome
Summary: A Oneshot so far. Reader, what would you do if you gave up everything for a hope, only to face disappointment of the worst kind? rated T for language and apparently "dark" themes.


A/N: What? Aya _actually_ wrote another fanfic? Whoo! Yea, this one is probably just a one-shot. If not, it's a chapter one for something (beginning _in media res_) that isn't my main project at the mo'. Well. Yeah. Oh, for those of you who maybe wanted me to work on older stuff (namely: Awakened), know that my muse (for that, at least) left with my wife. Anyway, without further adieu, I present to you "Out."

Edit: Oh, Ripred damn... no reviews? Cmmon, guy. Please?

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Unfortunately, his splitting headache was a frequent event. Nearly every other morning, he'd wake up with a throbbing head, light filtering in through the curtains burning his sensory organs. But after his long "naps" Gregor would still feel exhausted—perhaps even more than the previous night, which would always be a blur in his aching head. He would get so hammered that he would end up crashing on his beer-stained armchair, fourth or fifth bottle half-empty in hand—though there hadn't been one this morning—dribbling on his faded t-shirt. With a grunt, he slowly rose from the battered recliner and trudged to the sink for a glass of tap water.

He wouldn't have thought that the previous evening had been any different than other recent ones had he not sliced open his toe on a shard of broken glass by the door. The tile stuck to his bare foot; the socked one also seemed to have more traction than usual. Though Gregor was incredibly unobservant when he was hungover, he still noticed the fragments of broken glass, both large and small, that stuck out of one side the worn blue throw rug—it should have been thrown out years ago, but they couldn't afford another—which now was stained with beer.

"Damn." He scratched his matted mane of hair with pudgy fingers, trying to remember what had happened the night before. Gregor's mind swirled like fog; coherent thoughts and memories refused to form. Why bother? He shuffled into the kitchen.

The peeling laminate cabinets were, in the clearer moments, one of many reminders of the apartment's incredibly low income. A single cabinet still had a handle; one was even missing the door. Stained and warped counter top of the same material—with, of course, the assistance of the stout beige fridge—helped to give the kitchen a general "not renovated since the eighties" look. It wasn't exactly appealing, but it was all they could afford. No—it was more. Between rent and food, it was difficult to make money go far enough. Booze made it all the more difficult.

It was when the glass dropped gracelessly from his uncoordinated grip and shattered on the linoleum that Gregor remembered the previous night. Slowly, the haze in his head lifted, if just slightly enough to get a short, almost unreal movie clip of a memory.

"_You drunk bastard!"_

Now _that_ was a familiar scene. Something similar occurred at least biweekly. There would be shouting, name-calling, empty threats, and arguing among other things, but it virtually never got violent. In fact, it had exactly twice in the past. The first time—about six months ago—had been over his drinking. She'd tried to rip his precious bottle from his grasp and he'd smacked her upside the head. The second must've been the night , the most recent evening gradually slid into focus...

"_How the hell do you live with yourself? You have not had a steady job for years, you drink all the money I bring in away while your family suffers. I work three rotten jobs and you haven't a one. Have you ever had to wait tables, Gregor? Or dry clean clothes? Answer phones? No. I pay the bills. And what do you do? Sit around all day, go to a bar maybe. Can you even remember the last time you said anything to your kids? Can you even remember anything? I have had it!"_

_He'd pointed a shaking finger at her. "You ungrateful whore! Remember who got your citizenship papers straightened out? Or the time you nearly got hit by that taxi. Who pulled you out of the road?"_

"_That was ten goddamn years ago, Gregor. Can you honestly think of nothing recent that you've done for anyone? Besides, of course, make their lives a living hell, I mean. You alcoholic sack of shit. I'm going home." Her tone was no longer threatening, but more of a regretful one. Sadly, she slid the thin, fake silver ring from her finger and tossed it at him._

"_You are home," he began to protest, not wanting to lose his source of income. "You're not leaving."_

_She shook her head and smiled. "You know, he was right." This was directed more towards herself, as Gregor couldn't possibly have understood. "This whole thing was a big mistake."_

_She tapped lightly on one of the nearby doors, summoning her children. "Phoebe. Lysander. Come now, we are leaving" The door swung open, revealing an eleven-year-old looking shaken, clutching her little brother, whose cheeks glistened from streams of silent tears. Neither of them moved at first._

_It was at this point that Gregor realized that she would actually be gone come morning. He desperately began trying to dissuade her from leaving. "They won't let you back! It won't work, they'll banish you. How does eaten by rats in the Deadlands sound?"_

"_Far better than staying here." It was delivered with the desired effect: very cold, very cruel. "I gave up so much for you, for this, and none of it turned out to have been worth anything. Forget it. A slow, agonizing death could be no more painful than being here. There is nothing you can do to stop me."_

_He sure tried. Growling, he hurled his half-empty beer bottle. It exploded against the wall mere inches above her head, spraying the foul liquid across the entryway, dotting the foyer with glass._

"_You drunk bastard! Well. You have sealed your fate. Children, we are leaving. Come now." The apartment door slammed shut, and there was nothing more. Gregor was left to sob himself into unconsciousness._


End file.
